Bright side
I should be writing, which is not to say that I'm blaming the blog. I'm making excuses. Yesterday I moved and my muscles have stretched and torn in ways they haven't in some time. And while they're excited, I'm much less so. It was a new kind of sleep in an old bed. My fear that I would be unable to rest fully and normally, despite whatever fatigue, came true.
So now I'm doing the coffee shop thing, because of all the things I paid for and took care to reserve in advance, and pre-imagined, internet in my new place was not one of them. I won't say that this was completely accidental. Much like renting a place with stairs, I knew that making certain kinds of decisions would be more interesting, if not better, for me. Already I've been silently introduced to all sorts of interesting people dwelling in the palace of the dark bean (and I am not immune. I'm drinking crazy expensive orange juice).
The only plan I have at this point is to intend to plan. The outline is expanding again as I think forward, and while I wasn't able to finish the draft before Spring, or before I moved, I will finish it. I have the next novel in my published series already submitted, and a few soft agreements for promotional opportunities that may very well carry me on into summer. I also have made strides to sit down and take notes on the first sci-fi novel with one of my readers before I start on the next one.
So yeah, plans.
The sun has risen now, turning that foggy kind of promise into full-fledged day. The people around me, chatting, musing, reading, sipping, jotting, coming, and going take it for granted. I figure that's about where I need to get back to with my regimen. Make it regular like the sun rising.
But something can be said, too, for the other major part of being a writer, which is reading. Not just words, but people, situations, and circumstances. It could be that writing is the evacuation of the vast stores of thought through the particular lens of the specific author, and if so, it only makes sense that every now and again such quantities must be invested in, rather than given out.
Hm, so does it matter if the excuses are good ones?
So now I'm doing the coffee shop thing, because of all the things I paid for and took care to reserve in advance, and pre-imagined, internet in my new place was not one of them. I won't say that this was completely accidental. Much like renting a place with stairs, I knew that making certain kinds of decisions would be more interesting, if not better, for me. Already I've been silently introduced to all sorts of interesting people dwelling in the palace of the dark bean (and I am not immune. I'm drinking crazy expensive orange juice).
The only plan I have at this point is to intend to plan. The outline is expanding again as I think forward, and while I wasn't able to finish the draft before Spring, or before I moved, I will finish it. I have the next novel in my published series already submitted, and a few soft agreements for promotional opportunities that may very well carry me on into summer. I also have made strides to sit down and take notes on the first sci-fi novel with one of my readers before I start on the next one.
So yeah, plans.
The sun has risen now, turning that foggy kind of promise into full-fledged day. The people around me, chatting, musing, reading, sipping, jotting, coming, and going take it for granted. I figure that's about where I need to get back to with my regimen. Make it regular like the sun rising.
But something can be said, too, for the other major part of being a writer, which is reading. Not just words, but people, situations, and circumstances. It could be that writing is the evacuation of the vast stores of thought through the particular lens of the specific author, and if so, it only makes sense that every now and again such quantities must be invested in, rather than given out.
Hm, so does it matter if the excuses are good ones?
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